


miracles need wings to fly

by squadrickchestopher



Series: Filthy Porn Fridays [9]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Soulmates, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Temporary Blindness, Wing Grooming, Wingfic, mild panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27727471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: “If you touch my wings, I’ll stab you,” was the first thing Bucky Barnes ever said to Clint, and that’s when Clint knew he was in trouble.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Filthy Porn Fridays [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860367
Comments: 16
Kudos: 249
Collections: Clintucky Fried Bunnies





	miracles need wings to fly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiraelClayr007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/gifts).



“If you touch my wings, I’ll stab you,” was the first thing Bucky Barnes ever said to Clint, and that’s when Clint knew he was in trouble.

Partially because Barnes had the prettiest damn blue eyes he’d ever seen, and partly because Clint had (okay _has_ , he’s not fooling anyone) a danger kink a mile wide and was a little turned on the moment Barnes opened his mouth.

But mostly, he knew he was in trouble because the soul mark on his side suddenly flared, the previously silver letterings burning themselves black among his skin. He tugged up his shirt to look, just for the hell of it, then glance over at Bucky.

“Guess that solves that question,” he said, and Barnes’ eyes went wide, shock crossing his features before they snapped back to the inscrutable mask of before.

“Fuck,” he said. “Why _you_?”

And, well. That pretty much set the tone for their relationship, didn’t it?

* * *

By this point, Clint’s gotten used to it. He leaves Bucky alone, for the most part, other than talking on missions or awkward encounters in the tower. He can feel the soulmark pulsing sometimes, an itch that he can’t scratch, but he pretends that he doesn’t.

He’s good at that—the pretending. Always has been. Good at shoving away the things he wants, good at hiding his feelings behind jokes and quips and trick arrows. It’s just easier. If he can fool the rest of the world into believing it, then maybe he will too.

Still, he can’t shut it off completely. Which is why he _hates_ the missions where Steve pairs them up. They’re so opposite, and they _always_ clash—Bucky is methodical, more by-the-book, whereas Clint is more of a ‘if it gets the job done...’ kind of guy.

Natasha calls it reckless. He calls it creative.

Still, considering that he’s now dangling upside down seven-hundred feet in the air, foot tangled in cargo nets. he’s being forced to concede that she might have a point. Maybe he can be a little reckless sometimes.

“Barton,” Bucky hisses over the comms. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Sightseeing,” Clint snaps, because he’s sure as hell not gonna admit he’s stuck—

“Are you stuck?”

“No!”

“Barton!”

“Fine, yes, just give me a sex—sec, dammit, I can take care of this—“

Bucky mutters something that sounds a lot like, “Fucking moron,” and there’s a gross squelch that he doesn’t really want to identify. “Where are you?”

“Hanging from the blimp—“

“What— _why?_ ”

“Best way to see the town,” Clint says, finally maneuvering an arrow into place. “I got it, don’t worry about me. Did you get the disc?”

“Yeah.” There’s a string of colorful cursing, which spans multiple languages—Bucky’s telltale sign that he’s pissed off beyond reason. “Get the hell down here and help me—“

He cuts off with a grunt of pain, and the soulmark on Clint’s side suddenly burns. It’s not unusual—soulmarks do that when the other person is injured—but this particular pain is new, and intense, and Clint feels a flash of terror move through him.

He nocks an arrow and fires it, slicing neatly through the nets holding him. They unravel and he falls, his wings flaring to catch him. “Bucky!”

“I’m fine,” comes the muffled response, and then the line goes dead.

“Bucky!” Clint yells again. He goes into a steep dive, spreading his wings at the last second and hitting the ground with way too much force. His knees protest—his everything, really—but he ignores it, sprinting at top speed to where he last caught Bucky’s position.

Clint finds him prone on the ground, surrounded by several figures in grey robes. He makes short work of them with a couple trick arrows, then grabs Bucky. “Come on,” he grunts, heaving on his metal arm. “Christ, you’re a heavy bastard—the fuck are they feeding you?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, which scares Clint more than anything else. He’s _out_ , completely unconscious, and considering that he’s basically got the same fancy shit as Steve—well, it’s a whole bunch of not good. Clint’s gotta get him out of here.

He checks for the disc—still there, so the mission wasn’t a total loss—and grits his teeth, heaving Bucky up and over a shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He manages to grab his bow in one hand, but a quick look around shows him Bucky’s sniper rifle is nowhere to be seen. He’ll have to leave without it.

“He’s gonna _kill_ me,” he sighs, and starts moving.

* * *

It takes him two hours to get to the safe house, and Bucky still isn’t awake by the time he pulls into the driveway in his stolen car. It’s concerning, yes, but also a pain in the ass, because that means Clint’s gotta haul him in there, and he’s fucking _heavy._

Five sweaty minutes later, Clint dumps him on the lumpy couch and digs out a secure phone, putting in a call to Natasha with one hand as he digs around for a first aid kit with the other.

She answers. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Hello to you too,” he says. “Mission went south. Well, kinda. We got the thing, but Barnes is unconscious, and I don’t know why. They got him with something. I don’t know what.”

She sighs. “Okay. Scan him. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

He follows her instructions, scanning Bucky with a medical device that looks like it belongs on a _Star Trek_ set. “How long will this take?”

“Take some blood,” she says instead, and he reaches for the needle.

As soon as it sinks into Bucky’s arm, he startles, eyes opening wide. “What the fuck—”

“Easy,” Clint says, pulling the needle. “Easy, hey, it’s just me—”

Blue eyes land on his, wide and terrified. “I can’t see—why—Barton—I can’t _see_ —“

“Ow—” Clint ducks his wild swing, then catches his other arm. “Bucky, you gotta calm down—”

“I can’t see!”

“Okay, but hitting me in the face won’t help—” He catches another swing. “Stop!”

Bucky drops his arms, then reaches out blindly. “Where are you? Where are we? What happened?”

“We’re at the safe house,” Clint says, grabbing Bucky’s right hand and squeezing it. There’s a soothing sensation along his soulmark, like cool water on a burn. “I’m right in front of you. Mission went okay. We got the thing, but they hit you with something, and I don’t know what.”

“I can’t see,” Bucky repeats, and the terror in his voice makes Clint want to wrap him in a hug. “Why can’t I see?”

“Let me take your blood,” Clint says. “We’re trying to figure it out. Nat’s working to analyze it, but we need a sample. Okay?”

Bucky bites his lip, but nods, extending his right arm. His left is spasmodically clenching on his leg, silver fingers a stark contrast to the black pants. “Okay. Yeah. Take it.”

It’s oddly accommodating, but then again Clint would probably be desperate if he was suddenly and unexpectedly blind, so he can understand. He picks up the needle again and wraps his fingers around Bucky’s wrist. “I’m gonna put the needle in,” he says, tapping his finger where it’ll go. “Okay?”

“I said do it,” Bucky growls, and Clint does it, working as fast as he can.

Natasha makes quiet humming noises as she types. “I’m not entirely sure,” she says. “I’m getting weird readings. This looks like some kind of handmade compound. I think it was supposed to paralyze you, but it’s not working right. They probably didn’t calibrate it for you.”

“How do we fix it?” Bucky asks, voice tight with tension.

“I think we just have to let it pass through your system,” Natasha says, and she sounds sympathetic. “It won’t be too long, assuming your metabolism is on par with Steve’s. Give it a few hours, and if it’s not out by then, we’ll see what we can do.”

“A few hours!”

“I’m sorry, Barnes. That’s the best we can do from here.”

Bucky buries his face in his hands. Clint sits back, feeling like he’s intruding on something private. Bucky is usually so…stoic. This must really be getting to him, the blindness, and he wonders if it’s something Hydra-induced. PTSD or bad memories or whatever.

“I’m not going to leave you,” Clint says softly. “I’m—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky growls. “And get out of here.”

Clint takes the tablet and goes into the kitchen, enough to give Bucky some space, but close enough to watch him. “You really can’t do anything?”

“No,” Nat says. “Not from here.” She sounds tired. “Your extraction is in four hours. If there’s no change, we’ll just bring him back here and work on it. Okay?”

“Okay.” Clint opens the fridge, scowls at the empty shelves. “Tell Fury to stock the fucking safe houses once in a while.”

“Duly noted,” she says. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

He ends it and goes back into the living room. Bucky is still sitting on the couch, wings slightly flared out behind him. They’re a jumbled mess, really—dusty and dirty, feathers mussed every which way. It’s normally a soulmate thing to clean each other’s wings, but Bucky’s never showed any interest in touching Clint’s, and Clint’s one offer was met with a knife to the throat and a _I fucking told you not to touch them._

So yeah. He ignores the desire and leans against the wall, clearing his throat. Bucky jumps. “What?”

“There’s no food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Okay. I’m just letting you know.” Clint hesitates, then says, “Can I…get you anything?”

“Unless you have a cure for this, you can fuck right out of here.”

The tone is cutting and cold, and even though Clint _knows_ it’s because of what’s happening, he can’t help being a little hurt by it. Bucky is his fucking soulmate; he just wants to help. “Fine. Sorry I asked.”

Bucky scowls. “ I don’t need you to babysit me.”

Clint’s temper boils over. “I’m not _babysitting_ you,” he snaps, half-surprised at the amount of anger in his own voice. “I’m asking if you want a glass of water or something, god. I’m well aware you hate me and don’t want me anywhere near you, but I’m all you’ve got right now, so can you stop acting like the world’s biggest asshole for two seconds of your life?”

Bucky looks…shaken, almost. Like he wasn’t expecting that kind of an outburst from Clint. “I—” He stops, runs his silver hand through his hair. “I’m not—”

“I get it,” Clint says, suddenly exhausted. The mission is catching up with him, the fear and the worry and the stress, and he just wants to sleep. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. I’d be freaked out too.” He touches his hearing aid, then drops his hand. “No worries or whatever.”

Bucky looks stricken. “I don’t hate you,” he says, eyes staring blankly a little to the right of Clint. “I—why would you think that?”

Clint nearly bursts out laughing. “Because you do? Christ, man, every time I get within ten feet of you, you freak out. I offered to groom your wings and you put a knife to my throat. If that’s your way of telling someone you don’t hate them, then you’ve got issues.”

Bucky’s quiet for a long time after that, long enough that Clint thinks he’s not going to answer. He moves to sit on the other end of the couch, rubbing his eyes. There’s a bedroom, he’s pretty sure, but he doesn’t want to leave Bucky alone.

Finally, Bucky sighs. “Look—it’s not you.”

“If you’re going to give me the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech, I’m going to stab _you_ ,” Clint says.

Bucky actually laughs at that. It’s not much, but it’s half a smile more than he’s ever gotten before. “But it is,” he says. “Look—Hydra fucked with me, hard. You know that.”

“I do.”

“They tried to burn off my soulmark.”

Clint stares at him. “They what?”

Bucky shifts a little on the couch and pulls up his shirt. His mark is in the same place as Clint’s, curled around his ribs. Unlike Clint’s, it’s marred with burn marks and scars, truly like someone had tried to carve it right off his skin. There’s hints of black lettering, but the majority of it is destroyed. Clint can barely make out “question” at the end.

“It broke something,” Bucky says. “Up here.” He gestures at his head. “And I—it’s not that I hate you, or don’t like you, or don’t want to be with you. But I don’t feel the _bond_ —the soul bond. It’s just…not there.” He looks broken about it, tired and sad. “And I just…”

“Just what?” Clint can barely breathe. He’d figured there’d been something Hydra-related with all this, but this—this is way beyond anything he’d imagined could happen. Soul bonds are supposed to be irreversible, unbreakable, untouchable.

But maybe that’s only _after_ the words are spoken. Clint has no idea. He’s never heard of something like this.

“I just think you deserve better,” Bucky finally says. “Than me. I’m—I’m broken in a thousand different ways, Clint, and I just—you should have someone who’s gonna actually care about you like you deserve. Not…not me.”

Clint rubs a hand over his face. “No offense,” he says after a few minutes, “but you’re a moron.”

Bucky tilts his head. “No offense?”

“What, you think you got a monopoly on suffering?” Clint waves an arm, then realizes Bucky can’t see him. “For fucks sake, man. We all got shit to deal with. Yours just sucks more than most.” He sighs. “My parents died when I was a kid. I was raised in a circus. My own brother once tried to kill me. I got brainwashed by a Norse god. You think you’re special? Because you’re not.”

Bucky is staring at him—or would be, if he could see. As it is, he just kinda looks like he’s staring through Clint. “But the soul bond—”

“And you haven’t even _tried_ ,” Clint interrupts. “You just _assumed_ , like an asshole, that I’d be better off without you because you can’t feel some little connection between us? Soul bonds take time, Bucky. Love at first sight is for fairy tales.”

“No blind jokes allowed,” Bucky murmurs, and it’s such a deadpan delivery that Clint doesn’t register the humor until he sees the faint smile.

“Ha fuckin’ ha,” he says, smiling despite himself. “Look, I don’t know what Hydra told you, or what you’ve heard since then. But you’re my soulmate, for better or worse. I don’t care if we have instant sparks, or if it takes us twenty years, or if we never get there at all. I just…I just want to try. That’s all I’ve ever wanted with you.”

“Oh,” Bucky whispers, fingers tight on his knees. “Oh.”

He buries his face in his hands again, and Clint fights the urge to reach for him.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, his voice muffled. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

Clint swallows hard. “Can I…” he asks, trailing off for a moment before steeling himself. “Can I hug you?”

Bucky makes the saddest gesture Clint’s ever seen in his life, and he scoots closer, putting a hand on Bucky’s arm before gently pulling him into a hug.

“You’re not broken,” he murmurs in Bucky’s ear. “Not any more than me, or Nat, or the rest of us. And you sure as fuck don’t deserve to be alone because _they_ tried to make you that way.” He rubs his hand gently between Bucky’s wings, soothing and firm at the same time, and watches as Bucky nearly melts into him. “Fuck Hydra and whatever bullshit they tried to pull with you. You belong right the fuck here.”

They sit like that for a long time, Bucky tucked up into Clint’s arms. Clint’s soulmark is practically humming, soothing happiness trickling through him like a stream, washing away some of the stress and fear.

“Any luck on the eyes?” Clint asks after awhile, and Bucky shakes his head. “Okay. We still have another like…three hours to extraction.”

Bucky sighs. “I hate this. Not being able to see. It’s…I hate it.”

“It sucks,” Clint mutters. “I don’t like blindfolds, I can’t even imagine how you’re feeling.”

“Like shit,” Bucky admits. “And my wings hurt.”

Clint rubs a couple of the primary feathers. “They’re kinda dirty. And tangled in some spots.” He clears his throat. “You, uh. You want me to clean them?”

Bucky hesitates for a moment, then nods. “If you don’t mind.”

“Okay.” Clint stands up. He tries to hide the probably-dopey smile that’s on his face, then remembers that Bucky can’t see him. “It would be easier on a bed. I think. So you can spread them out.”

Bucky nods again. “Help me,” he murmurs, and Clint eases him up to his feet, then guides him into the bedroom. “Do you want my shirt off?”

_Oh god, yes._ “If you’re comfortable with that.”

Bucky tugs his shirt off, then clambers awkwardly onto the bed, laying flat on his stomach. “I’ve never done this before,” he says. “Um. Not with…someone nice.”

Well, that’s just fucking heartbreaking. Clint doesn’t even _want_ to ask what this was like in Hydra. This isn’t the time for bad memories, anyway. He wants Bucky to trust him, not recount past traumas. “You don’t have to do anything,” he says. “Just…relax.”

He starts to get on the bed, and Bucky catches his hand. “Talk to me,” he says. “Please.”

“That’s a change of pace,” Clint teases. “Aren’t you always trying to get me to shut up?”

“Because you’re annoying,” Bucky says, resting his head on his arms. “But I can’t see you, and I just—I need to know where you’re gonna touch me. Please.”

“Of course,” Clint says, suddenly glad that Bucky can’t see the probably horrified expression on his face. “Yeah. Anything.”

He kneels on the bed and reaches out. “Gonna start by the top of your spine,” he says. “Left wing.”

Bucky jumps as he touches him. “That’s the right,” he says, sounding a mix between accusing and amused.

“Sorry—” Clint keeps his hand moving. “I’m sorry. I mix up left and right sometimes.”

“Really?” Now he definitely sounds amused.

“Yes. Shut up. It happens.” Clint straightens a few feathers. “Wish I had a decent brushing set. These are pretty tangled. Dunno if I can get them straight just myself.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky mumbles, and his words are practically slurred. “Feels good.”

“Yeah?” Clint soothes one particularly gnarled feather. “Gonna do my best, okay?”

“Mmkay.”

Clint keeps going. It’s not great, but it’s better than the tangled mess they were before. Even more worth it is the way Bucky relaxes under his touch, the tension and stress leaving him. Clint keeps up a running commentary, interspersing his movements with random anecdotes. He tells Bucky stupid stories from his SHIELD days, and even more stupid stories from his circus days. His voice is hoarse by the time he starts in on the second wing, and his fingers are cramping, but he doesn’t stop. Not for all the money in the world. This is everything he’s ever dreamed of, right here, and he _loves_ it.

Eventually, though, he runs out of feathers. “Okay,” he says, coughing slightly. “I’m done.”

Bucky doesn’t move.

“Buck?”

There’s a soft snore from the bed, and Clint can’t help the fond smile that spreads over his face. He gently brushes the hair out of Bucky’s eyes, then digs out his phone and texts Natasha. _Hold the extraction please._

_Why?_

_We’re bonding. And he’s sleeping. Actually sleeping for once._

_Are you bonding or Bonding?_

_Both, I think?_

There’s nothing for a few minutes, and then his phone buzzes. _Quinjet will be at these coordinates. Use when you’re ready._

_Thank you._

_Fury says this counts as a vacation day._

_Tell him to suck it._

_Will do._

Clint puts his phone away and gently nudges Bucky over a little, crawling into the free sliver of space. He could go sleep on the couch, but he doesn’t really want to, and there’s only one bed in this house. So he just tucks all six-foot four of himself into this cramped little space and tugs a blanket over himself, closing his eyes.

* * *

“Wake up.” There’s a hand shoving at him. “Barton. Wake up.”

“Mmph,” Clint mumbles, whacking it away. “Sleep.”

“Barton—” Bucky shoves him again, harder. “Wake up, I can _see_ —”

Clint does crack an eye at that, rolling over to look at Bucky. He looks—

Well, he looks fucking hot, really, hair all sleep-tousled and a rough shade of morning stubble on his face. Clint blinks and tries to get his thoughts in some semblance of order. “You can see?”

“I can _see,”_ Bucky confirms, grinning at him. He’s delighted, bright and happy enough to light up the dimmest corners of the room. “Clint, I can _see_ —”

“Good for you,” Clint says, forcing his brain online. “Hey—that’s awesom- _mmph_ —”

He cuts off as Bucky leans over and kisses him. Any attempts at higher thought immediately flee at the feeling of lips against his, rough stubble scraping over his face, Bucky’s weight shifting onto him—

“Sorry,” Bucky gasps, pulling back. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

Clint grabs his shirt and yanks him in for another. There’s no finesse to it, no sweetness, and he’s pretty sure he’s got morning breath, but he doesn’t fucking care. His soulmark is practically _singing_ , the joy of connection pulsing through him, lighting him up from the inside out.

He wonders if Bucky can feel it too, but he doesn’t want to ruin the moment by asking. So he kisses and kisses and kisses him until they’re both gasping for air, breathless and tangled up in each other.

“Wait,” he says, because he _has_ to know. “Are you sure—”

“I’m very sure,” Bucky says, mouth barely inches from his. “I’m _so_ sure. Please don’t stop.”

As if Clint would. As if he _could_.

They kiss again, and then Bucky flips them until Clint’s on the bed, wings splayed out underneath him. He runs his fingers over the feathers. “I could fix these for you,” he offers, and everything in Clint’s soul screams _yes yes yes._

“Please,” he manages with a shuddering breath. “Please.”

Bucky studies him, then says, “After.”

Clint never knew two syllables could hold so much anticipation.

Time skips in odd jumps. He’s not sure exactly when the clothes come off, or when Bucky kisses his way down Clint’s stomach, mouthing over taut muscles and tracing a trail of fire with his tongue. At one point they’re looking at each other, and then the next second Bucky’s mouth is on him, all pressure and suction and perfect warmth. He arches up into it, feels that metal hand shove him back onto the bed and pin him in place.

He’s begging, he thinks, although there’s not really any need to. Bucky’s not teasing him, not drawing it out. He’s just moving in steady motions, pulling Clint ever closer towards that cliff edge, and Clint is helpless to fight it, to say anything but _please please please—_

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he manages, fingers digging into the comforter and twisting, the closest thing to a warning he can give. Bucky hums in acknowledgment, taking him deeper, and Clint—

Clint comes _apart_ , his skin prickling like static as shivers race down his spine. He can’t hold back a yell, doesn’t even want to try, he’s just coasting on a wave on sensation and Bucky’s mouth and the feeling of his soulmark thrumming under his skin.

He slowly comes back to himself to the tune of Bucky’s murmured words, and the dual sensations of metal and skin sliding along his body. “Hi,” Bucky says, when they meet eyes.

Clint offers a shaky smile. “That was…” he starts, then shakes his head. “Wow.”

“Good,” Bucky says simply, and presses a soft kiss to the curve of his hip. “I’m sorry we waited so long. Sorry _I_ waited so long.” He reaches up, caresses the few feathers he can reach.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” Clint asks, forcing his mouth to make coherent words. “I mean—I ain’t complaining. Just seemed…you know. Sudden.”

Bucky’s fingers still for a moment, then resume. “You deserve better than me,” he says, crawling up Clint’s body in a way that _absolutely_ pushes all the right buttons. “But if you want to try—I’m willing to. And you’re right, it wasn’t fair of me to just shut you out like that. I’m…not used to people caring. About me.”

“Get used to it,” Clint says lazily, shifting his wing. “I care. I’d care even if we weren’t soulmates. We’re teammates, at the very least. Also, I like you. You’re grumpy. It’s fun.”

Bucky’s face creases in a little scowl, hilarious and adorable, and Clint just has to kiss it off him. “I’m not _grumpy_ ,” he says grumpily, and Clint snickers. “Shut up.”

His dick is a hard line against Clint’s thigh, hot and insistent. But when Clint reaches for him with a quiet, “Please,” on his lips, he just shakes his head.

“Wings,” he says, nudging Clint onto his stomach. “I promised.”

“But you—”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, voice firm, and he presses a kiss to Clint’s temple. “I’m okay. I want to take care of you, now. Let me.”

“Mmkay,” Clint says, spreading his wings out.

He hasn’t had his wings groomed in a long time, and the feeling is almost _indescribable._ It’s like lounging in the summer sun, just a languid sensation of warmth, of happiness, of contentment. He stretches his wings out more, shifting so Bucky can reach the troublesome spots.

“This okay?” Bucky asks, brushing the tertiary feathers into place.

“Perfect.”

Clint loses himself in the feeling, the gentle stroking of his feathers, the easy way Bucky turns him to reach the spots he needs to get.

“I called off the extraction,” he says.

Bucky hums. “I figured.”

“Sorry. You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“So when are they coming for us?”

“They’re not.”

“What?”

“There’s a Quinjet waiting. We can go when we want.”

Bucky’s hand pauses, and then he says, “Whenever we want, huh?”

“Yeah.” Clint turns slightly to look at him. “I’m not against staying here a little longer, for the record. But we’ll have to get food. Or order pizza. We should order pizza. Can we order pizza?”

“Sure.”

“Yay.”

Bucky starts realigning feathers again. “I’m gonna run out of vacation days,” he says, and Clint lets out an undignified snort.

“I mean, we can’t stay _forever_ ,” he says. “We have to get that disc into SHIELD. But a few more hours…” He trails off as Bucky nudges the last line of feathers into place. “I think I’d like a few more hours.”

“I think I would too,” Bucky says. He runs his metal hand up Clint’s spine. “I still don’t feel anything. From the mark.”

He sounds sad about it, and Clint rolls over, tucking his wings in and pulling Bucky down into a kiss. “Hey,” he says. “It’s okay. We got time. I meant it, Bucky. First sight or ten years or twenty or a lifetime. I just want to _try_.” He traces his fingers over the scarred soulmate mark. “And honest, I don’t care if you feel it here.” He moves his hand over to Bucky’s heart, beating steadily under his touch. “This is where it’s important.”

Bucky snorts. “That’s sappy as hell.”

“I’m being romantic,” Clint says. “Sue me.”

Bucky kisses him instead, which Clint thinks is a much better use of their time. “You know,” he says when they come up for air. “I do actually have a lot of vacation time. Seventy years worth, I’d say.”

“Yeah?” Clint grins at him. “I guess you would.”

“And soulmates can share,” he says. “Or so I was told.”

“You going somewhere with this?”

“I vote we fly that Quinjet somewhere sunny,” Bucky says. “And maybe make up for some lost time.”

Clint props up on his elbow. “You really want that?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says softly. “I do. That okay?”

“Buddy, that’s the most okay thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Bucky rolls his eyes—probably at being called _buddy,_ and Clint makes a mental note to do it more often— before he kisses Clint one more time. As soon as their lips touch, Clint feels it again. That thrumming, pulsing feeling. It’s not just in his soulmark, it’s in his whole being, his entire soul suddenly feeling alive with it.

“Come on,” he says, getting up. “No time like the present or whatever. Swing by SHIELD, drop off our shit, and then—“

Bucky looks around. “Hey. Where’s my sniper rifle?”

Clint freezes, then flashes him an innocent grin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Your bow is there,” Bucky says, pointing through the open door to the next room. “So where the hell is my rifle?”

“In my defense,” Clint says, backing away. “You’re _really_ fuckin’ heavy, and I couldn’t find it.”

“You _left_ it there?”

“I was saving your life?”

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. “I get the feeling this is going to be a long lifetime with you,” he says, but he doesn’t look as annoyed as Clint would’ve suspected.

“Probably,” Clint admits. “You’ll get used to it.”

Bucky nods. “Alright. We’re going to SHIELD, dropping off our shit, and then you owe me a new sniper rifle. A nice one. With a good scope. And better mounts. Consider it a soulmate gift.”

Clint relaxes. “Alright,” he says letting a crooked smile cross his face. “Sniper rifle shopping, and then a sunny beach vacation. Just what every soulmate dreams of.”

“Damn straight,” Bucky says, tossing him his clothes. “Get dressed.”

“Pizza first,” Clint bargains, pulling on his pants.

“Sure.” Bucky grins at him, happier than Clint’s ever seen him. “Pizza first.”

They gather up their supplies and set off, walking towards the Quinjet coordinates. There’s a spring in his step and a song in his heart—which is also unbearably sappy of him, but he doesn’t care. He’s been pining after his soulmate for months now. He’s entitled to a little romanticism.

He chuckles, and Bucky glances at him. “What?”

“I didn’t want to go on this mission,” Clint admits. “I yelled at Steve, and he made me go anyway.” He smiles. “I’m glad he did.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, leaning over to kiss him again. “Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the least porny FPF, but eh. Next one will make up for it. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> no beta, all mistakes are mine and delicious and you cannot have them


End file.
